


Hold On

by sadIittlenerdking



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major character death - Freeform, Mourning, all friendship based, somebody dies terribly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-08
Updated: 2017-05-08
Packaged: 2018-10-29 13:13:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10854729
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sadIittlenerdking/pseuds/sadIittlenerdking
Summary: Quentin knows something’s wrong when his bedroom door crashes open, slams against his dresser, and nearly closes again with the force. But Eliot’s hand reaches out, stops it with a small thump, and takes a slow, staggering step into the room. He stares blankly at the door, jaw slack and eyes wide and misty.Quentin sets his book aside, pitches his legs over the side of the bed, hand coming to his side to push himself up. “Eliot?” He asks, tentative, as Eliot takes another, slow, clumsy step into the room. “Eliot, what’s wrong?”





	Hold On

Quentin knows something’s wrong when his bedroom door crashes open, slams against his dresser, and nearly closes again with the force. But Eliot’s hand reaches out, stops it with a small thump, and takes a slow, staggering step into the room. He stares blankly at the door, jaw slack and eyes wide and misty.

Quentin sets his book aside, pitches his legs over the side of the bed, hand coming to his side to push himself up. “Eliot?” He asks, tentative, as Eliot takes another, slow, clumsy step into the room. “Eliot, what’s wrong?”

His mouth works without noise for a moment, before his legs give out beneath him, and Quentin rushes across the room to catch him before he falls to the ground. His hands grasp Eliot’s elbows, his own legs buckling beneath his weight, as they go down to the floor in a slow, messy heap, with Eliot falling overtop Quentin’s lap. Quentin eyes him for a moment, one hand coming up to run across his jaw, and up to his hairline. Eliot’s gaze is blank, and somewhere far off.

“Eliot, what happened?” He asks again, frantic.

For a moment, Eliot stares past him, empty, at the wall. But then his eyes start to focus, and his gaze comes in to look at him. His jaw trembles, adam’s apple bobbing. And then he breaks. Tears flood over his cheeks, and his face scrunches up angrily, as he pulls himself into Quentin, sobs into the bend between his neck and shoulder, loud and angry and broken. Confused, Quentin places one hand on the back of Eliot’s neck, holding him there, and the other rubs up and down his back.

He waits for the sobs to calm, and for the shaking to subside. When he settles down, Quentin whispers into his ear, “Eliot … please talk to me?”

Eliot shakes his head, gripping fistfuls of the back of Quentin’s shirt in his hands. A broken sound comes from his throat, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t try to say anything. He buries his face in the crook of Quentin’s neck, refuses to move. Quentin sighs, pulling his body closer, and holds him until he’s ready to speak.

When he does, it’s a surprise. They’ve been sitting for hours, the suns set, and a darkness has overtaken the whole of the room. People have come and gone, similar looks of grief on their faces, but he waves them away, waits for Eliot. They sit there in complete silence, if not for the soft sounds that often grow broken and angry coming from Eliot’s chest. They don’t move, and Quentin’s knees are beginning to ache from the bend and weight overtop them, but he doesn’t dare try to move Eliot, who seems too broken to be moved. They sit on the floor until Eliot’s ready.

He doesn’t even pull away. The words come in hot breaths against Quentin’s humid neck, reverberating through his throat and down his spine. It takes too long for them to settle in, for him to understand. For a moment, he’s not even sure Eliot’s spoken at all, but he’s sobbing again, gripping Quentin too tight, like saying the words made them true, and the wound’s been opened again, a  fresh and searing pain.

“ _Margo’s dead_.”

When it does settle in, it settles heavy in Quentin’s heart. A single, vicious pump that pounds up against his rib cage, crashing through him so hard and fierce, he’s sure it breaks through skin. He sets his jaw, takes a deep breath, and tightens his arms around Eliot. He gets it now, why he doesn’t want to talk. So they sit. Quentin attempting to be strong, arms wrapped around Eliot tight and without hesitation, Eliot crying into Quentin’s neck, like the world doesn’t have enough room for his grief. Sheds so many tears, Quentin’s shirt grows damper, and damper. No words wasted, no breaths kept in.

At some point, Penny and Kady appear, freshly showered, looks of shared guilt and grief on their faces, but Quentin shakes his head, and Penny closes the door after a moment of hesitation, and gives them their privacy.

When Eliot finally pulls away, there’s no warning, Quentin’s sore muscles creak and groan as they click out of position, blood rushing to parts of him he’d forgotten were there, because they’ve gone numb. Eliot looks at him, sits back on his haunches, stares at him in a childlike sadness, eyes wide and innocent and full of something Quentin’s never seen in him. Then he climbs to his feet, holds his hands out for him. Quentin reaches out for them, allows himself to be pulled up, and then Eliot’s pulling through the cottage, down the stairs. People watch them as they pass by, but neither of them pay any mind, Eliot with his gaze on the on the ground, determined, and Quentin watching his back as they move through the house.

And then they’re in front of Margo’s room. There are flowers on the floor in front of the door. Eliot glares down at them, snaps his fingers, and they catch on fire, as he kicks them aside and pushes open her door. As they enter, Quentin casts a quick spell to smolder the flames before Eliot shuts the door behind them, and pulls him over to the bed. Eliot climbs up first, letting go of Quentins hand to pull a pillow up to his chest as he curls up over the covers. When he realizes Quentin hasn’t followed him onto the bed, he looks over his shoulder, gives him a look, and says, gruff and quiet, “Lie with me.”

Quentin nods, slow, and moves around to lie on the opposite side of the bed. He lies down on his side, facing Eliot. The pillow is crushed beneath his arms, and his face his buried in the fabric, and Quentin can hear him inhale, deep and lasting. They lie in silence for a few minutes, until Eliot opens his bloodshot eyes, and stares at him. His breath hitches, and his eyes shine as tears pool, but he reaches out with one hand, and Quentin takes the hand, holds it tight between them, running his thumb over Eliot’s knuckles.

“I love her,” Eliot murmurs, voice cracking.

Quentin nods. “I know.”

“She’s my best friend.”

Quentin nods again, moving forward, so the only thing between them in Margo’s pillow. He holds onto Eliots hand. “I know,” He repeats. “I know.”

Eliot closes his eyes as his jaw trembles, “I - I can’t live without her.”

“You can.”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes tight like he’s trying to lock in the tears. “I can’t.”

Quentin hesitates, but he lifts up, reaches towards him with his free hand, brushes it along Eliot’s temple, down his cheekbone, and along his jaw. “You will,” He murmurs, soft. “Because you have to.”

“How?”

“I -,” He pauses, swallowing as Eliot opens his eyes. He wavers for a moment, finds himself swimming in Eliot’s eyes, lost in his sea of misery, but he shakes his head. “Fight.”

Eliot watches him for a moment, inhales and exhales shaky breaths. Then, he nods, squeezing Quentin’s hand, leaning into the warmth of the other. They lie in silence for a few moments, Quentin watching him breathe, Eliot thinking, soft tears sneaking out through the corner of his eyes. Until Eliot opens his eyes again, sets his jaw. “The beast killed her,” He says, the words cracking as he tries to get them out quickly.

“You don’t -,”

“I do.” He murmurs, firm, looking up at the ceiling as his eyes glaze over, “We were just - standing there. Talking. In the middle of the courtyard. Laughing about some stupid first year … I - I can still see her face. Frozen.” His gaze flickers back over to Quentin, “We couldn’t even react. He just - just appeared. And,” His face scrunches up, lips trembling as he tries to get the words out, “Just,” He swallows, “He -,”

Quentin shakes his head, lets go of Eliot’s hand to carefully pull the pillow out of his grasp, and pulls him up against his chest, holds him as tight as he can. “You don’t have to do this right now,” He whispers into his hair, “Not now, Eliot.”

“He ri - ripped out her heart.”

Quentin’s breath hitches, gripping Eliot even tighter. “Eliot -,”

He pulls away, to look up at Quentin, an ironic attempt at a smile on his lips. “She would have laughed,” He says, “Would have said she’s surprised she has a heart.” He takes a shaky breath, “But she stared a - at me. And I,” He closes his eyes, curls his lips inwards as a whimper breaks through, a soft and broken sound. “I saw the - the moment she - it went dark. I saw her _disappear_.”

As his eyes open, Quentin sets his own jaw, gazes at him. “The beast killed her,” He says, “So you survive. Find a way to kill him.”

“It won’t bring her back.”

“No, it won’t,” Quentin murmurs, squeezing the back of Eliot’s neck, “But we can make the bastard suffer, okay? You can make him suffer for this.”  He looks down at him, at the tears still slowly falling down his cheeks, and the solemn set of his lips. “He doesn’t get to take her from you. He doesn’t get to live. Not this time.”

“Q -,”

He shakes his head, “I’m not going to let him get away with this. And neither are you. She wouldn’t let you give up now, Eliot. So,” He takes a deep breath, “Neither am I.”

Eliot watches him, appraising for a few long moments, before he gives a small, reluctant nod, and curls back up against him, resting his head just above Quentin’s heart. He wraps his arms around them, holding tight. “Tomorrow,” he whispers, “Today I can’t.” His breath fans out against Quentin’s chest, “Tomorrow. I’ll be strong tomorrow.”

“You don’t need to be strong,” Quentin says, soft, against his hair, “You just need to fight.”

“For her.”

“For her,” He agrees, “For you, too.”

Neither of them say anything for a few moments. “She was wearing her favorite lipstick,” Eliot finally says, the words vibrating against Quentins heart, “When she died. She was wearing her favorite lipstick. It was smudged, on the right side. I didn’t tell her because she always looks perfect, and I thought she could handle a few minutes of looking normal, like the rest of the world.” He shivers, fingers digging into the muscles of Quentin’s back. “She’ll never forgive me for letting her die looking anything less than perfect.”

Quentin doesn’t respond, just nuzzles his chin into Eliot’s hair, holds him as he talks about her. Because that’s all he can do. He can’t fix this, can’t even try. All he can do is be there for him. Make sure this doesn’t destroy him. That’s all he can do. Hold on, and never let go.


End file.
